All Things Left Unsaid
by Fatespeaker
Summary: Conflict arises under the mountain. Kestrel and Webs do not get along, and they have dragonets of destiny to raise. During a brief conversation, with many things left unsaid, Webs realizes that they are not so different after all. (Connected to my other one-shot "The Color of Dragon Blood", but can be read separately)


**All Things Left Unsaid**

Webs was starting to hate that SeaWing.

Of course it would be the dragonet from his tribe who turned out to be the feisty one. Sure, it had been amusing to watch Dune get nipped on the nose (served the SandWing veteran right for bringing politics up yesterday), but getting his own tail scratched by dirty little baby claws was not so funny. Webs winced as he accidentally thumped its injured side on the ground. _Why_ did he keep doing that?

It was some consolation to know that Kestrel was now nursing several bites on her wing. The tension between her and Webs remained, and he expected things to be like this for a while.

Sighing, he began to sweep up the dirty nesting material. Webs couldn't wait until the dragonets were old enough to sleep in their own little allocated rooms. For the heroes of a marvelous prophecy, they sure soiled themselves and puked on each other a lot.

The dull, constant ache in his back suddenly spiked with a sharp pain. Webs held back a gasp and continued cleaning. Another old injury. From one of the island battles, perhaps? The hot, crude blade in his side - oh, how narrowly it had missed his lung. There could still be bits of metal in him, healed over and forgotten.

Or maybe the pain was just a bruise from last week.

Webs set down his broom and picked at some of the stray leaves with his claws. It was probably dark outside. He suddenly felt very tired.

"When did I get so old?" he growled to himself, flexing his sore talons. It seemed so long ago that he'd fled from the Sea Kingdom and let his life go all topsy-turvy. Now, every time that blasted SeaWing kid attacked him, he would have the joy of regretting that decision.

Before any more sour thoughts could slip into his head, a rough, loud, and all too familiar laugh sounded behind him.

He turned, and there was Kestrel.

"Me too, fish, me too." The SkyWing slid over to the other side of the cave. Webs saw that she was holding a bucket. Since it was empty (thank the moons, Glory wasn't sick anymore), he assumed that she was on water-fetching duty for today.

He glared at her for a moment before returning to his task, the broom now clutched with two tight fists. He ignored the quiet bitterness that now festered in the room and went over his to-do list in his head.

This was the aftermath of every fight. They pushed on and left their angry comments unsaid. Life continued as planned; the three of them had jobs to do and future heroes to tend to.

It seemed that Kestrel wanted to make the biggest possible splash when she dunked her bucket in the river. Webs resisted the urge to snap at her. If he could escape the royal guard of the Sea Kingdom with the queen's egg in his talons, then by all the tides, he could go a day without provoking Kestrel.

"You're on duty tonight," Kestrel said gruffly. "Dune's skipping his turn to whine about his cough." She sounded quite calm and casual, considering the fact that she was supposed to be upset with Webs. Webs wondered if her earlier laughing had been less mocking than he thought it was.

Webs was also surprised by the bit about Dune. The SandWing rarely complained about illness, for he prided himself in his resistance to it. Perhaps he had caught something more than a mild cold. They would have to keep him away from the dragonets, to ensure that none of them came down with it.

"Fine," Webs replied, keeping his reply short and curt.

As he swept another patch of leaves and grass aside, a glimmer of blue caught his eye. He paused.

He leaned down, gritting his teeth against the wave of pain that hit his spine, to squint at the piece of eggshell. Frowning slightly, he extended a careful claw and brushed away the bits of plant. The shard gleamed up at him coolly. It was a delicate little fragment, small enough to fit in his palm, and it had already faded considerably in the days since the hatching. Now, instead of deep royal blue, it had a more washed out, shallow hue.

Ocean blue.

Webs picked it up. His arm was trembling slightly, and he did not know why.

There was another egg. He had held it close, against his chest, so the dragonet in it could hear the heartbeat of its father. He had talked to it so long ago.

He turned the eggshell piece and watched it glint, watched it shine until the dull side met the light, and remembered.

An ocean blue egg. A turquoise wing. Something like a home. So, so long ago.

Webs recalled it all, and felt a special pain within him. Old shrapnel. How it hurt, how it all still hurt, the leftovers of long ago. Sometimes he wondered how he wound up here, in a cave with two other miserable former soldiers, watching children that were not his own, in the place of one who _was_. Sometimes, as he wondered, he ached.

"You really believe in the prophecy?"

He spun around and looked at her. Her deep scowl, framed by a tight jaw, was stained red by their recent dinner.

Webs crunched the blue eggshell in his claws. The shards dug into the thick scales of his palm. It did not hurt. He clenched his fist again, breaking what was left of the shell it into little pieces. Little flecks of ocean blue.

"Yes," he replied sharply.

Did she?

Kestrel snorted. If Webs were a less cynical dragon, he might have thought the look in her eyes was genuine.

Muttering something about that stupid MudWing dragonet, Kestrel picked up her heavy, water-filled burden and started for the cave's exit. Webs faced his back to her and resumed work on his own chore.

Then she stopped. Webs heard a scrape of metal on stone as she set down the pail. He turned slightly and watched her in the corner of his eye.

"You better, Webs," Kestrel said softly. Her gritty voice, usually so grating, was almost pleasant at this low pitch. "You better. After giving up that."

Perhaps some sort of understanding passed between them, or perhaps only a musty draft of air.

She picked up the bucket again, her scarred talons curling over the handle, and marched out.


End file.
